Page 67 of Business vs. Pleasure

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, that wasn’t good.

One bullet hit a trauma plate in his vest. One…

One did not.

Ricardo tried to keep moving even as the ground dropped out from under him. He was suddenly out of breath, and he had no idea if it was panic, or if the bullet had collapsed his lung.

Either way… not good.

“Ricardo!” August flew out from behind the car. Ricardo tried to shout for him to stay covered, but he couldn’t speak, and anyway, August was laying cover fire that would’ve drowned out his words anyway.

August dragged him through the mud behind the car. There was more gunfire. August shouted something Ricardo didn’t hear.

From where he lay on the drenched ground, he could see beneath the car. Right to the rapid trickle of oil draining from the puncture oil pan into the mud below.

Their vehicle was crippled. The kid in the other car was gone. There was no way August could carry him up that hill and to safety. Especially since safety was miles away.

He closed his eyes and wheezed.

There was no escape. No way to get help.

Even if August could find a way out…

Ricardo was fucked.

CHAPTER 18

No bullet, no knife wound, no amount of glass to the eyes, nothing was more painful than watching Ricardo collapse with a grunt of pain that from him might as well have been a scream. August was moving to him before he even realized it, dragging his bleeding heart to the dubious safety of the car before returning fire toward the shadowy figure at the top of the hill who had it in for them.

Shit, they’d played this so wrong. There was no dealing with a madman. August should never have even entertained that NightRaven would have any interest in doing this the sane way. His God complex was too big—that or he’d lost all sense of his original goals and decided to live in the moment, rating be damned.

Live in the moment. Ha.

Ricardo was alive, but August wasn’t sure how long he had to keep him that way. Given the way he was wheezing…if his lungs were involved, not very long. And he was still bleeding, he was still⁠—

Two more bullets impacted the front bumper of the car. “A little to the right!” August called out, doing his best to keep his voice level as he stripped off his jacket—farewell, sweet Zegna, you were a trooper—and folded it to make a pressure pad. “Come on, I thought you were good at this!”

“Good enough to hit Mr. Torralba, I believe,” the smug bastard yelled.

Fucking prick. August fired an irritated shot in NightRaven’s direction and was rewarded with a curse and a barrage of bullets that took out the two front tires, making their little car slump down even farther. He must have hit too close for comfort. Too bad he hadn’t managed more.

“You’re not going to make it out of this alive, Mr. Morrison,” NightRaven called out a moment later. “Why not just stand up and take the easy way out? I promise I’ll make it fast for you.”

August laughed out loud. “Wow, you’re a funny guy. Absolutely hilarious.” He checked his magazine—four shots left. He reached for his spare, and⁠—

A crack of lightning burned across the darkening sky, followed swiftly by a roll of thunder so loud it felt like being tumbled around inside a dryer. It was almost enough to obscure the next few shots fired their way, but not quite.

NightPigeon, because fuck that guy, was nothing if not persistent. And depending on how much of his armory he’d brought along, they might be here for the long haul.

There was no long haul. There couldn’t be.

At least the car was sufficing as cover for now. August grabbed his wadded-up jacket and scooted over to where Ricardo was sitting in the mud with his right shoulder against the rear right tire, which was all that was holding him up from the look of the blood pooling in the water beneath his ribcage. He looked up when August slid in next to him, but August didn’t meet his eyes. He couldn’t; he would either start ranting or crying, and neither of those was helpful right now. He undid Ricardo’s jacket, then his vest. “Where?” he demanded.

Ricardo tapped his left side, about six inches below his armpit. He opened his mouth, then closed his eyes and pressed his lips together tight against a shout as August pressed his makeshift bandage against the wound, hard.

“Suck it up,” August said harshly, then refastened the vest around the jacket. That would keep a decent amount of pressure on it and hopefully slow the bleeding.

“August—”